


Midnight Summer

by yeoltidecarol



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: 1980s, Alternate Universe, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-07 16:03:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16857079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeoltidecarol/pseuds/yeoltidecarol
Summary: In the summer of 1986, you meet Chanyeol. In the summer of 1986, you let yourself get lost in him.





	Midnight Summer

Los Angeles in the summer is oppressive, almost aggressive in the way it clings to your skin and presses on you, making you feel like you’re forced to swallow its wetness whole. You always hated it, the way it slithers down your back in a drop of sweat, steals the moisture from your mouth and makes you thirsty; aching to be touched, yet untouched in the warmth. The only place you can feel any sort of reprieve is the Manhattan Beach Pier, one long expanse of wood and sea breeze removed from the neon of the city. Here, the metal railing cools your hot skin and your tongue tastes the sea, hair ruffling in the wind as your body starts to relax. Here, you let yourself be unmade - just a little. You relax into yourself and your tight dress. Here, summer doesn’t seem so violent or so long.

And here is where you met him.

You thought he was too bright for such a dark space, tresses a rainbow of pastel nonchalance and lips pink from the heat. His long fingers toyed with a lighter, but you saw no cigarette, the absent minded action turning it into a firework. For a while, he didn’t notice you staring at him. For a long while, you didn’t know why you kept looking. It was rude and intrusive, the pier a place of quiet reflection and peace - defined as such by you. But you couldn’t look away, not from him. There was a hardness in his bones that seemed contradictory to the brightness of his person, settling in his clenched jaw and furrowed brow. He was a paradox of playfulness and adult abjection, and he was beautiful.

And when he looked at you, when he finally turned his eyes to yours, you didn’t feel breathless or speechless merely awash with the overwhelming sensation of finding something you’d been waiting for.

‘Something to say?’ he asked, voice deep and tongue teasing his bottom lip.

You could suck that lip, you thought, suck it and make it bleed between your teeth.

‘No,’ was your calm reply, and, for that evening, it was enough.

Until it wasn’t.

You met like that for weeks, standing at the edge of the pier separate, but together. On the second night, he told you his name, saying I’m Chanyeol to the sky without looking at you or really needing a response. You told him your own and he simply nodded, the action so minute you would have missed it had you blinked. On the fifth night, he told you not to trust him, though you’re not sure why. You said you didn’t and that you wouldn’t, and he seemed pleased with this answer, turning to look at you and smiling for the first time. It felt like your heart had learned how to bloom and burst.

Slowly, naturally, your bodies gravitated towards one another, inching closer along the railing over a period of days in which you found it harder and harder to be apart. Eventually, you stood shoulder to shoulder, not really feeling the need to say anything just luxuriating in the nearness of him. The smell of his cologne was carried on the breeze, mixing with the salt of the air and putting him in your mouth before you could truly taste him. It was a heady combination, the kind that made your synapses short circuit and your thighs clench in anticipation or desire, and it made you want to pull at him.

‘I’m going to kiss you,’ he said calmly, breaking the silence and sending the words into the crashing waves.

He really wasn’t asking your permission, and you assumed he could feel that he didn’t need it. You could smell him in the air and likely the same was for him, two halves of the same fucked up whole aching to burn out together.

‘Good,’ was really all you could manage.

When your lips touched, you were surprised such a hard thing could feel so soft. He moved against you like he already knew you, and you could taste the cocaine on his teeth as your tongue moved against his, turning him into a contact high. He hummed into the kiss, sending a vibration through your chest that rumbled deep into your core, making you wet and desperate to be close. Your hands were needy, but so were his, and you found it odd that you wanted to be pressed so tightly against him. You kept people at an arm’s length in the July heat, flesh too hot and wired to crave the touch of a stranger, but he was different. Chanyeol’s blood ran cold, you assumed, his skin cool to the touch and made you feel refreshed wherever his hands traced. Cupping your ass and your breasts, creeping up into your neck, he was the chill you’d been seeking throughout all your summers.

Now it is August, and, now, you can feel September looming around you, feeling the crisp air of autumn long before the start making the hair on your arms stand at attention. Chanyeol is driving you somewhere, he didn’t say where, just suggested leaving the city behind in favor of each other’s company. It’s normal for him to do this, Chanyeol finding the proximity of people in the city something of a burden and you finding people to simply be too loud. It’s normal for him to take you, drive you out of the city somewhere quiet, somewhere far up the coast where you can fuck or talk without feeling the obligation of being who LA made you to be.

He’s reckless with his speed, one hand on the wheel and the other draped over the door as he whisks you up the Hollywood Hills. With every press of his foot to the gas, the car seems to moan in appreciation, his lips parting to release a sigh at the noise - as though he were about to transcend ecstasy. Tonight, he is gold and pink, a neon smear in the wind as he speeds along the highway, and tonight you are hungry.

When he drives, there is a carefree sort of authority to his features, an ease of control as he handles the car the way he handles your body: with power and knowledge and affection. Chanyeol isn’t soft for many things, doesn’t lose the tension in his shoulders unless he’s sure the thing he surrenders to will bring him pleasure. Chanyeol isn’t soft for many things, but he’s soft for a drive and he’s soft for you. It’s this knowledge that fills you with a yearning so whole and complete that you find yourself grinding your hips into the black leather of your seat, exposed knees tensing as the cool night air runs along your skin.

Watching him, it’s easy to lose yourself in the sight. Your hand falls between your thighs as if on instinct, and he seems to notice from his peripheral, moving to look at you with relaxed eyes and a smirk that lets you know he wants you too. He reaches one hand over to your cheek, cradling it gently as he watches the road, before bringing his thumb to your bottom lip, gingerly tugging at it to relish the plumpness. You suck his finger into your mouth, biting weakly at the tip and stroking it with your tongue, giggling at the way his eyes flutter as he releases a low groan.

Pulling his thumb from your mouth, he drops his hand to the apex of your thighs, moving yours away and hiking the skirt of your dress up past your hips. Not wasting any time, he shifts your underwear to the side and strokes one finger along your slit.

‘You’re fucking wet,’ he growls, turning to look at you with wide eyes.

Removing his hand from your body, he turns back to the road and slides his finger into his mouth, humming in pleasure. The telltale curl to his upper lip forms, and you moan in delight.

He licks his lips, and smiles. ‘Sweet.’

Chanyeol doesn’t touch you again after that, leaving you in an intense state of longing. He makes it a point to not look at you, instead keeping his eyes on the road as he runs his fingers over his lips, but you can feel the heat radiating from his body even through air. There’s a phantom limb ghosting over your slit and thighs, where his hands once were, and your body is tingling as though being touched by a ghost. Biting down on your lip, you close your eyes and sigh as you try to make the memory last, to bring the feeling back to life.

Your body is a live wire, chest instinctively lifting from your seat and mouth going dry in anticipation. Part of you thinks you should be shocked by the control he has over your body, how just one brief touch of his fingers can tilt you, leave you on edge and make you into a ravenous, lustful thing, something wholly unlike the way you normally surrender to pleasure. But another part of you, a different, bolder part of you, knows that he had control from the start. He had control because you let him, you let him and you wanted him, and now your body reacts to the thing it calls mine.

Chanyeol pulls the car off the road at the top of a hill, a vantage point overlooking the city surrounded by trees and only a few streetlights. It’s dark here, secluded enough to feel the warm hands of privacy dance along your skin, and open enough to be dangerous, risky. Up and out of the city, you can almost see past the smog and the smoke, free from the scent of piss and exhaust, and can finally see Los Angeles as a city of stars the way the rest of the world does.

He rests his head against the seat and looks at you, eyes blown wide and lips set in a seductive pout. You know he means to reach for you, you can see the bulge in his trousers simply begging to be touched, and the way his fingers twitch in expectation of skin against skin. You know he means to reach for you, but you slide out of the car and away from his hold before he can move.

Beneath the echo of the door slam, you can hear his dissatisfied whine as you walk towards the edge of the view barrier, hips swaying purposefully to tease him. Wrapping your arms around yourself, you lean over the concrete with a small smile, taking in the scenery and the night sky. Real stars are a wish, a memory of vacations with your family up north, where the city pollution doesn’t reach so high and the sky is free and wild and alive. You settle for this, though. Settle for the ownership of the city, for the way the height and the distance makes it seem like you could hold LA in the palm of your hand; the way this view makes you feel like a queen and Chanyeol your king.

He steps behind you, hands reaching for and stroking at your hips, clutching the flesh of your body with force as he presses his chest against your back. For a moment you stay this way, basking in the warmth of one another, feeling a sort of dominance course through your body as you think on how this city and this night is yours, commanded by your own choice and whim. Chanyeol’s hot breath cascades down your neck, spreading out over your shoulders and sending a heat to your core that makes your thighs clench. He seems to sense this, chuckling to himself as he leans to take your earlobe between his teeth.

Turning in his arms, you pull back to admire all the colours of him, the way he is every shade of beauty, every shade of love and lust and the image of summer you always wanted but could never find. In these soft moments, these moments of quiet and comfort, he becomes something young and something precious. In one summer, you’ve tasted cocaine on his tongue and watched him fight brutally against the rules of conformity and expectation. In one summer, you’ve learned he’s wrong for you in all the ways society deems him to be so: too cold, too uneducated, too cruel in his outlook on life. But, in one summer, you’ve learned he’s the most perfect thing you’ve ever held between your hands and now, with the summer breeze disappearing with each passing day, you start to see him as you should have from the start: a refraction of light, something impermanent and impossible to keep.

This only makes you wrap your arms around his neck, hold him close and tight, pressing your lips against his in an almost painful act of heartbreaking need. He’s tangible now, and yours, grasping at your body like he’s trying to mould himself into you; merge into your bones to keep you with him, united down to the marrow. When he kisses you this time, it’s like fire. He’s a straight shot of whiskey and you’re burning with the taste. On edge for too long, he wants all of you and you want all of him, teeth and tongue fighting against one another for dominance. Usually, he’s slow. Usually, he takes his time and likes to tease you, only touching you once you’re begging for him, whimpering beneath the weight of how badly you want him. Tonight, he kisses you like he wants to go to war, wants to claim your body and mark you as his, always, to own you the way you own the night.

Pulling your mouth from his, you move down his jaw, nipping gently at the bone, down towards his neck where you latch onto your favourite tendon. Chanyeol stills, moaning at the way your tongue licks at his skin as your teeth latch down while you suck. His fingers become furious things, needy things, moving to grip your ass as he pulls your hips to his. He’s hard and hungry, mouth agape and sighing into the pleasure, and the sheer noise of him almost becomes too much for you to bear. Rhythmically grinding into you, his hands move up your back, splayed wide aching to feel all of you at once, until they reach your neck to fist in your hair. He tugs your head back and rests his forehead against yours, panting into your mouth to share your breath.

‘Can I fuck you here?’

He asks for permission for this and only this, voice taut and dry like always. He asks permission for this one thing because, even though he knows he doesn’t need to, knows that for him the only word you have is yes, every new location is a test of your boundaries, an expansion of territory as you fuck your way through the world.

‘Yes.’

Turning your bodies, he walks you slowly back until your thighs hit his Mercedes 450, and he bends you down until your back rests on the hood. Foreheads still touching and his eyes searching you, remembering you in some way, his hands graze all the pieces of you they can touch as he settles between your thighs. Your breasts, hears from his hands penetrating the fabric of your dress and bra; your hips, held tightly to the point of bruising, giving you marks to wear with pride; the skin of your thighs and the backs of your knees as he parts your legs wide, this especially making you arch up against him.

He’s turned you into a sensitive thing, goosebumps raising on your flesh wherever he was and no longer is, and you clutch at him, squeezes his shoulder blades to remind yourself you are here and alive and his.

Finally his fingers glide along your thigh, where you want him the most, and you tilt your head back as you hiss from the contact. You observe the sky as he sucks lighlty at your throat, enjoying the black and the feel of him all around you. One long digit strokes you, teasing you for entrance, and you look down to find him studying you with a smile.

‘Right now,’ he says, lowly, ‘I can’t not touch you.’

At this, he slides his finger into you, watching the way your expression morphed into one of extreme pleasure. He moves in you with an exactness born of someone who took the time to learn you, observed your face, your sounds, the flush of your chest, until he learned all the ways to unmake you with ease. He moves in you with precise thrusts, adding a second finger as his thumb circles over your clit, and you cry out, laughing immediately after as you echo amongst the trees.

Fingers stretching you, he takes to licking your exposed collarbones, teasing it between his teeth to mark it. You want to kiss him, leave your marks on his as well, but you know this is about you. Already you feel each other slipping away, summer coming to an end and with it the fire that binds you, and Chanyeol is possessive, unable to give things away once he gets attached. And so you don’t turn this into your standard affair, mouths covering every inch of skin, instead letting him worship you because he wants to. He wants to and he does.

Eventually though, you find clenching your walls around his fingers isn’t enough. You need more of him, have never truly had your fill of him, and so you reach between your bodies to find his belt. You fumble with it, fingers shaking as he executes a rather deep thrust of his fingers while flicking your clit, until it comes undone.

He pulls away from you to help, and you let your body relax against the car, still trembling from holding yourself up to undress him. This was always your favourite part, watching him languidly remove clothes to reveal himself to you. You consider it a great unwrapping, a removal of the things he uses to fight his way through the world, revealing his skin and bones and hardness, and making himself vulnerable only for you.

As he rolls a condom over his length, you can feel the heat from his gaze as he takes in your figure. You know you’re his favourite thing, at least for right now. You’re his favourite thing and he makes it known in all the ways girls of your youth would find to be simply not enough.

The way his tongue comes to wet his lips, mouth dry from the sight of you. The way he hardly moves, standing still in front of you, refusing to hide himself away and giving the totality of his soul to you. The way he doesn’t really blink, only lets his eyes flutter briefly, unable to look away from you and arrested by the sight. The way his breathing seems to become little more than a quake, heart thundering in his chest at the thrill of having you and tasting you and surrendering only to you. It’s hard to think how these things couldn’t be enough for someone. They aren’t words and,because they aren’t words, they matter more. They are things a person can’t hide or fake. They are real. He is real, and these things are what instill a small spark of hope in your chest that he won’t wither from your reach past the season.

Unable to be away from you any longer, Chanyeol lowers himself to your body and lets his lips hover just above yours. Taking hold of your knees, he wraps your legs around his waist and enters you slowly, gliding in little by little giving you time to adjust with each slight move of his hips. You sigh at the feel of completeness, the way he fills you in ways you didn’t think possible, ways you didn’t know you needed, and he takes the opportunity to kiss you, first with his soul and then with his mouth.

After several seconds of this seductive stillness, your walls clench around him, desperate to move against him, and you take his face between your hands. Heart full as he closes his eyes and rubs his nose against yours only slightly, you whisper to him.

‘I need you to move.’

And he does.

He slides in and out of you, setting a punishing rhythm that seems almost contradictory to the softness he has for you, but this you know is the only way he knows how to fuck you. Hard. Purposeful. Deep. This is how he loves, with bruises and sweat stains on the pain of his car. With low grunts, keening whines, and your nails digging into his back so hard you draw blood. The force of his hips meeting yours makes the car beneath you shake, jutting back and forth in time with his thrusts.

All around you is Chanyeol. His car, his body, his hands, his scent. He possesses you completely and you let him, arching up into him at the thought of giving yourself over to him, now and for always.

One of his hands slides between you, finding you clit and rubbing circles into you, just how he knows you like. Again, this pleasure isn’t about him. It’s about you. He wants you to come first and around him, hard enough for him to gag at the feeling of you squeezing him dry. He wants you gasping, splayed out on his car too tired to move because he doesn’t wish it to be so and because removing yourself from his hold would cause you both an unbearable amount of hurt.

The coil inside your stomach builds, the base of your spine starting to twist with each thrust of his hips, and you watch him bite his lips. He gets deeper and deeper every time, making sure you feel him inside you even when he isn’t. Making sure you feel him even when he’s apart from you, aching for him to be with you again. Your hands reach for his neck, fondling the his sweat soaked hair, and he groans at the way you tease him, at the way your fingers stroke at his scalp the way he strokes the very core of you.

‘I won’t last,’ you whimper, relaxing back against the car to stare at the sky.

Invigorated by your words, he increases his speed, thrusts harder and faster than before, his fingers on your clit no longer lazy but calculated in their desire to feel you trembling beneath him.

‘Eyes on me, baby. Eyes on me when you come.’

And so you do.

The tension in your body reaches its peak at his words, raising your legs higher against him and your back off the car. You look right into him, into his eyes and into all the things he hides from the world as you shudder, violently, around him in waves that shake your soul from your body. He takes it from you, takes all of it from you, with greedy thrusts that become sloppy in the wake of your orgasm. You ride your high, quivering in his hands as he comes with a vulnerable moan, a moan that is loud and vocal and wholly unlike him as he submits to the all encompassing feel of you.

You lay together for a long while, unable to move and unable to speak. His fingers touch all the places they couldn’t reach before: you hair, your ears, your neck. You do the same to him, stroking his ears and admiring the way he looks so like a boy in his post coitus bliss. Sparks from your orgasm still linger in your vision as you regard him with a fond smile, and the very notion of this makes your heart stop.

He’s given you everything you ever wanted. An escape, a reason to enjoy the season, a reason to release yourself to something unexpected and new and brilliant. And tonight, he’s given you the stars.

He’s given you the stars.


End file.
